


The Sum of His Parts

by engagemythrusters



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Cybermen - Freeform, Found Family, M/M, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 12:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30105759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemythrusters/pseuds/engagemythrusters
Summary: "When he woke up and felt the familiar protests to movement of his fingers, Ianto knew he had about eight hours to see Tosh and Owen before they locked up. Again."
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	The Sum of His Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this amazing post and artwork](https://grinchwrapsupreme.tumblr.com/post/642797421971292160/but-also-op-if-you-drew-your-specific-idea-of)by golyadkin/grinchwrapsupreme! Hopefully I did it some justice...

When he woke up and felt the familiar protests to movement of his fingers, Ianto knew he had about eight hours to see Tosh and Owen before they locked up. Again.

He flexed them a few times, studying them. They moved in clicks, not unlike clockwork: nothing at all, and then a leap to the next position. He hated that. If anything could drive home just how unnatural his hands were, it wouldn’t be the joins of his fingers (sawed at the joins and pinned back together with thin scars), or the metal casing enveloping his palms (which may or may not house skin beneath it still), or even the way people looked at them whenever he foolishly let them show in public. No. It would be the execrable _click_ , _click_ , _click_ whenever the gears holding him together failed.

With a sigh, he sat up, putting his face in those metallic palms of his. His jaw ached, too, now that he thought about it, and the tension travelled all the way up into his brain. Headache. Would get worse, if ignored.

He straightened, glancing over at the bed beside him. The blankets were rumpled, tossed aside to reveal the wrinkling of the bedsheet, where a body had lain. Ianto placed a hand there, as if to gauge how long ago said body had left. Pointless, really. His hands had very little sensation; pressure was about the only thing they could sense. Certainly not body heat. He smoothed his hands over the wrinkles, wishing he could feel the difference in texture as his fingers slipped over the creases.

Another sigh escaped his lips, and he figured he might as well get up. He slid off the bed and stood, rolling his neck to pop it. He never disliked sleeping alone—never had and never would—but sometimes he slept in positions that proved to be rather discomforting in the morning.

Down the hall, a tap turned on. Ianto listened to the hiss of water for a second, then began making his way towards the loo. The door was open, so he stood in the doorway, his hands finding his hips as he watched the scene in front of him.

Jack turned to him after a bit, grinning. He always smiled too much in the morning, the bloody morning bastard. This time, the paste-sprinkled lips made Ianto roll his eyes.

“That’s my toothbrush,” Ianto told him.

Jack removed the toothbrush from his mouth, glancing down at it. Then he shrugged and offered it to Ianto, who scowled but took it anyway.

His clicking fingers betrayed him.

Jack’s brows furrowed, still holding the end of the toothbrush as Ianto’s fingers finally closed around it.

“Thought you were a little rusty last night,” Jack said eventually. The teasing served as a poor cover to the concern.

Ianto brushed off the comment and past Jack, rinsing the toothbrush beneath the still-running water. He then replaced the toothpaste and stuck it in his own mouth as Jack spat and rinsed. Ianto amused himself for a split second, thinking quietly how different that image was to that of last night.

His jaw started creaking, too, when he rinsed his own mouth out. Figured. Not long until his chest piece shorted out, then.

Some days, he really just felt like cursing out the universe.

Jack had already left the loo and gotten changed by the time Ianto rejoined him in the bedroom. Jack’s lips pulled into a leer, ready to make some cheeky comment or another. But then he seemed to spot the look on Ianto’s face and dropped it, settling for a quick brush of his fingers across Ianto’s arm as he left the room.

After careful consideration, Ianto selected a black pinstripe, red shirt, and black tie. He forewent the vest, figuring that was a few too many buttons for uncooperative fingers. Plus, it was another unnecessary garment he’d have to remove for his tune-up. No point in wearing it, really.

The frustration came in tying his tie. His fingers wouldn’t click themselves fast enough for a good knot. Fiddly things got harder when his hands turned to clockwork.

“Here. Let me.”

Ianto turned, tie still stuck between his fingers, to see Jack standing behind him. Despite all his loud and brash manners, the man could be quiet when he wanted to be. That, and Ianto had gotten quite absorbed in his irksome clothing.

When Ianto hesitated, Jack reached out and slipped the tie from between Ianto’s frozen fingers. Ianto’s lips smoothed themselves into a thin line as Jack delicately draped the silk over Ianto’s neck. His eyes stayed on the fabric the entire time. Ianto studied his face. An even and inscrutable expression adorned it. But also, something akin to…

Kindness. A weakness of Ianto’s, some might say. Ianto didn’t think so. But it was something he sometimes didn’t know what to do with when given it in return. The universe never gave it to him often enough for him to have it all figured out.

Jack finished off the tie, smoothing it down carefully over Ianto’s chest. His hand rested there a moment, and all Ianto could do was stare at it.

Used to be, back when they’d first started… well, after Lisa, and they had begun whatever it was they’d had back then, sometimes Ianto would look down at his bare chest—no longer completely bare, with metal spidering around—and feel so guilty. He couldn’t even call himself ‘partially converted,’ because that was what Lisa had been. Ianto was just an anomaly with metal plating and bolts and scars and nightmares of a failed conversion. But Lisa… she’d been more than that, but less than a Cyberman, and Jack had been her executioner. And Ianto was sleeping with the man.

But then Jack had always found a way to distract him, and the shame would fade into lustful passion.

He still thought about it sometimes, but with less guilt. He knew now that the Cyberman hadn’t been Lisa. He knew now that Jack had done the right thing. Now, he just wondered to himself how much of his touch Lisa had been able to feel, in the end.

And he wondered if her armour felt cold. He could never tell. Even if he rubbed his metallic palm to his cheek, he could never meter how hot or cold it was against his skin.

He’d never asked Jack. He didn’t want to know how unhuman his touch felt. How unnatural it might be. Jack hadn’t ever complained or commented on it, but… well. Ignorance was bliss, in some situations.

Then Jack’s hand lifted from Ianto’s chest, and all thoughts dispelled.

Jack left the room again without another word, probably to go raid Ianto’s cupboard for food. Not that Ianto kept much in his flat—most of his meals were eaten at the Hub, takeaway or pastries or whatever else someone (largely himself) brought in. Actually, Ianto could have some oats for Jack to eat here. Maybe. He may have eaten them. He couldn’t recall.

Ianto pulled open a compartment in his drawer and nabbed a pair of thin, black gloves. Garments for show, rather than for function. Fortunately, in his case, show was the function. He slipped them on with some difficulty, trying to manoeuvre ridged fingers into the proper slots.

He rubbed his sore jawpiece and—not for the first time—mused on how not many people had to quickly polish fingerprints off their chin.

Another sigh escaped his lips. Today seemed to be a day for them. He shook his head, swalloing one more sigh, and made his way to his kitchen.

He didn’t have oats, evidently. He had a bunch of coffee and a stale loaf of sliced bread. Jack had eaten neither, but he did scowl at Ianto the entire way down to the car. Whether it was because Jack was hungry (and therefor angry) or because he was frustrated that Ianto didn’t feed himself properly, Ianto both didn’t know and didn’t care. They’d get food on the way in. They always did, especially when Ianto’s fingers wouldn’t let him operate the coffee machine.

Ianto watched Cardiff fly by outside the window, as Jack evidently didn’t feel inclined to talk today. Perfectly fine with Ianto. He didn’t want to talk, either. It would just overwork his jaw. And then it would lock up faster, and then he’d get stuck with clenched teeth that would hurt after an hour and give him a skull-splitting headache. He didn’t exactly want that to happen. (Again.)

They only stopped once—at a coffee shop that Ianto had long ago deemed a “worthy” replacement for Hub-brewed coffee. If Ianto wasn’t going to drink his own coffee, it had to come from here. Well, that or Baps just on the Quay. But Jack never stopped at Baps.

Ianto had instructed Jack on exactly which coffees the team drank and which pastries they each ate, then sent him in alone. Today, Ianto didn’t want the stares at his face. He was already having quite the day, and he did not feel the need to add to it. Sometimes, he wished wearing face coverings was the norm, so he could hide the strips of metal across his chin and lining up his cheeks. Alas, Ianto didn’t see that becoming trendy anytime in the near future. He’d just have to deal with the stares.

Jack returned quickly, hands laden a tray of coffees and a pastry bag. Ianto inspected the contents of both, before nodding.

“I know the orders,” Jack huffed.

Ianto did not point out that, three times in a row, Jack had ordered Tosh a strange latte that had made her feel nauseous.

“About time,” he said instead.

Jack scoffed, then started the car again.

They parked Ianto’s car next to the SUV, which Ianto noted needed a good cleaning. He mentally added it onto his to-do list.

Jack stopped him outside the door into the Hub.

“Report to Toshiko and Owen straight away,” he said.

“I know.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed minutely. Ianto figured that was well earned; there have been occasions, in the past, where Ianto had maybe taken just a bit too long to find the pair of them.

But then Jack’s hand brushed gently down Ianto’s arm, reassuring and affirming. It lingered just long enough for Ianto to miss it when it left.

“Breakfast!” Jack called when they entered the Hub. “Hot and… well. Mostly hot and fresh.”

“Ooh,” said Gwen, who had been passing by with a load of files. “Brilliant, thanks.”

She peered at the cups, grinning as she spotted hers. She tucked the files beneath an arm and slipped the cup out. She also took Tosh’s, because Tosh sat up at her desk, peering down at them with wide eyes. And Owen came crashing down the stairs as Gwen brought the two coffees up them. He stopped before the two of them, eyes squinting as he stared between Ianto, Jack, and the tray of dwindling coffees in Jack’s hand.

“That’s the second time in three months,” he said in the end.

Well. Nobody could say Owen wasn’t smart.

“The hell have you been doing?” he demanded. “Electrocuting yourself repeatedly?”

“No,” Ianto said, affronted.

His jaw snapped when he closed it. He held back a wince.

“We did encounter that EMP last week,” Jack suggested. “Maybe that—”

“No.” Tosh was still peering down at them owlishly, coffee untouched beside her keyboard. “Shouldn’t affect Ianto. Well. We don’t think so, anyway.”

Jack shrugged.

“Well, best get your arse on down to the autopsy bay,” Owen said. “I’ll reschedule the appointment with Mr Weevil, just for you.”

Ianto couldn’t help the eyeroll. “Thanks.”

Owen didn’t even take his coffee—Jack would probably drink it—when he turned and trudged back up the stairs. Ianto took a sip of his own cup as he went up the stairs, then deposited it in the bin beneath Tosh’s desk (the one that constantly went ignored).

Sure enough, Owen was shunting a Weevil corpse into one of the frozen compartments in the autopsy bay. Ianto wrinkled his nose and hoped to god that the Weevil hadn’t been on the autopsy table already. Though he did have his suspicions when Owen patted the metal slab far too eagerly.

He slid onto the table as Tosh drifted down the stairs, focus glued to her PDA as she did. She only looked up when she reached the table and stood herself directly in front of Ianto.

Ianto knew that gleam in her eyes. Toshiko Sato loved puzzles, and Ianto was one of her favourites.

He knew she tried not to look at him that way, as just another unsolvable mystery, as a piece of alien tech just waiting to be unravelled. And most of the time, she didn’t. _Most_. Every now and then, he caught her staring at his jaw with unhindered intrigue, the cogs of her brain clearly ticking away.

Ianto couldn’t condemn her for it. He did understand. If he’d met a walking, talking coffee machine, he’d likely think to himself how many pots he could make from that machine. A poor analogy, truth be told, but… it was the first one that popped into his head.

And, above all, Tosh was his friend and co-worker. He had nothing but high regards for her. He knew she felt the same for him, even if he did house her favourite conundrum. 

“We ready to start?” she asked.

Ianto shrugged. They both looked to Owen.

“Right. Shirt off,” Owen said.

“Please,” Tosh added, with a sidelong glower at doctor.

Ianto slipped his gloves off with great care, and then began slowly removing the rest of his clothing. Tosh had already begun scanning him as Owen sorted through various scalpels. To Ianto’s knowledge, Owen had never actually used those on him. Ianto suspected it was a form of psychological torture.

Gloves off and shirt removed, Ianto let the pair of them begin their administrations. Tosh poked around the casings of his hands, while Owen prodded at the metal of his chest.

Used to be that Ianto would try to figure out what they were doing, so that he could replicate it on his own. He didn’t want to bother them more than he needed to, so home repairs seemed to be preferable. And they were, until he’d jammed his hand. After quite the tongue-lashing, Ianto never tried that again.

He felt the presence of Owen’s hands on his chest, but nothing more. But even if he could feel them… what would he feel? Was Owen’s skin cold? Room temperature? What did a living dead man feel like? Ianto could read thermometers just fine, but there was a fine line between knowing and understanding.

Owen was the only person who understood what it was like, not to feel. He understood running his fingers over silk sheets and not sensing a thing. He understood getting clocked on the jaw and not comprehending the pain, only the inertia. He understood seeing a giant wound on his chest and not knowing what to even think about what that meant.

Owen understood what it was like, to watch everyone live their normal, human lives, and feel so empty inside when he realised that he wasn’t like them anymore.

Not even a week after Owen had died, Ianto had watched him fiddle with one of those scalpels. He’d looked up and caught Ianto’s eye. And Ianto had learnt more about Owen from that single glance than he’d ever done before. Then the moment had passed, gone just as quickly as it had come.

They never spoke of it after.

“Jesus. Really, did you fry yourself alive?” Owen asked. “Chuck a toaster in the bath?”

Ianto scowled. “No.”

“Well, something happened,” Owen said.

“He’s right,” Tosh said. “Normally you wouldn’t need a tune-up so soon. Something’s off.”

“I don’t remember doing—”

“Those techno-savvy species, the… the um… oh, the whatchacallems,” said Gwen’s voice.

Ianto glanced up, spotting her standing up at the top of the steps, forearms resting on the top of the railing while a boot propped up on the lower rung. Her brows had furrowed.

“Those aliens we met last Tuesday,” she tried again.

“Right. And what day was Tuesday again?” Owen muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

“The Tehoron?” Tosh supplied.

Gwen snapped her fingers and pointed down. “Yeah, that’s the ones. Didn’t they have that sort of… well, it looked like a scanner, and they were trying to—”

“Oh!” Tosh exclaimed, cutting her off. “Maybe. It would make sense. They did fry my PDA.”

“Okay, so Ianto never gets to meet those fuckers again,” Owen said.

Ianto thought that was just fine by him.

“Right, well. You’re done for me, then,” Owen said, turning back to Ianto. “Tosh?”

“Finished minutes ago,” Tosh said, patting her small toolkit.

“Then get off my table,” Owen told Ianto. “I have a Weevil to dissect.”

Ianto needed no further prompting, gathering his discarded clothes and ducking to the corner to put them back on. Once his suit jacket securely fit over his shoulders and his gloves snuggly tucked his fingers in, he fled the room.

Gwen waited for him at the top of the steps, smiling pleasantly at him. It was almost as if she hadn’t watched Tosh and Owen remove parts of him to unstick his fingers and jaw.

But that was just how Gwen was. First day she met him, she’d stared at his jaw for a split second—just like everyone else—and then diverted her gaze. Not that the action ever made him feel better about it; forcibly not looking at something drew just as much uncomfortable attention to it as direct staring. But, after a while, he’d learned that was just how Gwen was. She had been so determined to see him as just a normal person. Maybe that wasn’t what she should do, according to the universe, but it was what Ianto wanted. He wanted to be more than the plating on his chin and pins in his fingers. And to Gwen, he was. He was just Ianto Jones: friend, colleague, and favourite barista.

Some days, he wished he’d waited to save her from that conversion unit. Just a few more seconds. If anyone should be just like…

No. He didn’t wish this on anyone, least of all her. Cost was greater than the reward, even if it meant he was so much less alone.

“All shiny and new?” she asked.

Ianto wriggled his fingers at her. They flexed fluidly. No clicking joints, no clockwork fingers.

Odd, how much more normal he felt, when he could look down at the fabric and pretend, just for a second, they were his old fingers.

But then the bulge of the metal palms always betrayed him.

“Brilliant,” she said, smiling. “Well. I’m off to go tell Captain Snark that he’s not allowed to write off parking fines in the Torchwood expense reports again.”

He let out a heavy sigh, and she laughed.

“Wish me luck,” she said, tiptoeing to kiss his cheek before turning and disappearing into Jack’s office.

Ianto figured he had a good hour or so before the Rift began acting up. From what he could see of Tosh’s monitors, nothing on the Rift predictor’s immediate radar. Good. He had a whole section of the Archives he had been waiting to reshelve for over a week now.

He gathered rubbish as he leisurely made his way down to the Archives, throwing wads of crumpled paper and candy wrappers in a randomly placed bin inside the corridor. Another thing for his to-do list: reposition bin to more obvious and blatant spot, and cough loudly whenever someone littered instead of throwing their shit away.

Ianto liked the Archives. Always had. Even when he was harbouring Lisa down there, when the whole place had felt like impending doom, he had still liked it. And that while after, when it felt like a graveyard. Something about the place just felt quiet and soothing. Away from prying eyes. Just Ianto, files, alien objects, and big, empty rooms.

Perfect for so many reasons.

He had never joked that he knew this place better than anyone. The only person who could possibly know as much would be Jack, but even then… the man hadn’t noticed a whole conversion unit in the basement, so how could he be aware of any of the other changes Ianto had made? Safe to say, Ianto knew more, now.

Finding the right room, he slipped in, disturbing the dusty floors. If any sunlight reached down this far, the swirling motes would create quite the golden display. Instead, all Ianto had was a yellow-burning bulb and a short coughing fit. He did learn his lesson, though, and wiped down the shelf he would be working on. Then he tucked himself in the far corner and began his work.

Another nice thing about the Archives was that time seemed to lack meaning down here. Maybe it was that lack of sunlight, or maybe Ianto’s internal clock just knew to switch off as soon as moved one level too far down in the Hub. Or maybe it was the fact that down here, he had only one thing to care about: archiving. In any case, he could lose himself in his work. The only things that would remind him that the outside world existed would be the occasional hunger, need for sleep (otherwise known as caffeine deprivation), and, most frequently, that nuisance of a Rift.

This time? None of the three.

Ianto heard the footsteps before anything else. Too heavy to be Tosh’s or Gwen’s, too deliberate to be Owen’s.

Flipping the file in his hands shut, he set it down and turned as Jack entered the room.

“I was looking for you,” Jack said obviously.

“Here I am,” Ianto said, equally so.

Jack’s lips turned upwards in the beginnings of a grin.

“Owen says you’re better?”

Better. Ianto wouldn’t call it that. Better implied the lack of it all. Less clicky. That was what he would call it.

“Yep,” was all he said.

“Good,” Jack said, nodding.

His fingers trailed along the shelves as he came closer to Ianto, pushing dust. He wiped it on his trousers absentmindedly as he came to a halt. Ianto couldn’t help the tut that escaped his lips. Jack smiled at that, but he didn’t comment.

“Can I see?” Jack asked.

Ianto held up a hand and waved his fingers. Jack captured it between his own hands in a steady move, holding it firm. Ianto frowned as, with great care, Jack began pulling the glove off.

Bare hand now exposed, Jack studied the dull metal and scarred fingers. Ianto shifted on his feet, wary of the attention. Just because he had gotten used to Tosh and Owen gawking didn’t mean he particularly liked it. Especially not when it came in such an intense form as Jack’s.

Then, to Ianto’s near shock, Jack brought the hand to his face, pressing his lips to his fingertips.

Ianto had never wished to feel anything more in his life.

“Good,” Jack murmured again.

His hands stayed wrapped around Ianto’s, holding it like some precious thing. Something cherished and irreplicable and necessary.

Staring at their hands, Ianto’s chest felt tight again. Shit. Should he revisit Tosh and Owen? Maybe they’d missed something. Maybe… maybe he was… No. The way his heart thudded in his mechanised chest implied something else.

“What does it feel like?” blurted from Ianto’s lips before he could stop it.

Jack’s eyebrows raised, curious and patient.

“Is it… warm? Or cold?” he asked, his heart racing faster.

A softer smile played on Jack’s lips, and he raised Ianto’s fingers to them again. The pressure of the kiss was so soft that Ianto couldn’t even register it, and he mourned that. Jack’s own fingers caressed the metal casing on Ianto’s hand as he brought it away again.

“It feels just right,” Jack said.

For a moment, all Ianto could feel was that tightness in his chest. And then, all at once, it eased away, releasing him from its spell.

“Oh,” he said, rather stupidly.

Jack laughed, then pressed the hand to his chest. Ianto couldn’t feel the heartbeat, but he knew it was there.

One of Jack’s hands let go of Ianto’s, placing itself on Ianto’s cheek. His thumb rubbed at the strip of metal cutting across his cheek, and then trailed along to the chinpiece. The hand dropped, down to Ianto’s own chest, mirroring the way he held Ianto.

“Just right,” Jack repeated.

Ianto nodded, just the once, and then stepped closer.

He lost himself in the kiss, knowing no matter how unnatural he might be, _this_ was completely, totally natural. 

And he wouldn’t have that any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be extremely ironic when I post my minibang fic after this...  
> Thank you for reading! Have an amazing day!


End file.
